directions, he even points out the railing of a small park in the distance which I must keep hold of for safety’s sake when I go past. Then advice about the tram-car, the
U-Bahn, etc. I can’t follow him any longer and ask in a fright, knowing full well that I am underestimating the distance: “That’s about half an hour away?” But the old
man answers, “I can make it in six minutes.” What joy! Some man, a shadow, a companion, is always at my side, I don’t know who it is. Really have no time to turn
around, to turn sideways.
Live in Berlin in some pension or other apparently filled with young Polish Jews; very small rooms. I spill a bottle of water. One of them is tapping incessantly on a
small typewriter, barely turns his head when he is asked for something. Impossible to lay hands on a map of Berlin. In the hand of one of them I continually notice a
book that looks like a map. But it always proves to be something entirely different, a list of the Berlin schools, tax statistics, or something of the sort. I don’t want to
believe it, but, smiling, they prove it to me beyond any doubt.
14 February. There will certainly be no one to blame if I should kill myself, even if the immediate cause should for instance appear to be F.’s behavior. Once, half
asleep, I pictured the scene that would ensue if, in anticipation of the end, the letter of farewell in my pocket, I should come to her house, should be rejected as a suitor,
lay the letter on the table, go to the balcony, break away from all those who run up to hold me back, and, forcing one hand after another to let go its grip, jump over the
ledge. The letter, however, would say that I was jumping off because of F., but that even if my proposal had been accepted nothing essential would have been changed
for me. My place is down below, I can find no other solution, F. simply happens to be the one through whom my fate is made manifest; I can’t live without her and must
jump, yet—and this F. suspects—I couldn’t live with her either. Why not use tonight for the purpose, I can already see before me the people talking at the parents’
gathering this evening, talking of life and the conditions that have to be created for it—but I cling to abstractions, I live completely entangled in life, I won’t do it, I am
cold, am sad that a shirt collar is pinching my neck, am damned, gasp for breath in the mist.
15 February. How long this Saturday and Sunday seem in retrospect. Yesterday afternoon I had my hair cut, then wrote the letter to Bl., then was over at Max’s new
place for a moment, then the parents’ gathering, sat next to L.W., then Baum (met Kr. in the tram), then on the way home Max’s complaints about my silence, then my
longing for suicide, then my sister returned from the parents’ gathering unable to report the least thing. In bed until ten, sleepless, sorrow after sorrow. No letter, not
here, not in the office, mailed a letter to Bl. at the Franz-Josef station, saw G. in the afternoon, walked along the Moldau, read aloud at his house; his queer mother who
ate sandwiches and played solitaire; walked around alone for two hours; decided to leave Berlin Friday, met Kohl, at home with my brothers-in-law and sisters, then the
discussion of his engagement at Weltsch’s (J. K.’s putting out the candles), then at home attempted by my silence to elicit aid and sympathy from my mother; now my
sister tells me about her meeting, the clock strikes a quarter to twelve.
At Weltsch’s, in order to comfort his mother who was upset, I said: “I too am losing Felix by this marriage. A friend who is married is none.” Felix said nothing,
naturally couldn’t say anything, but he didn’t even want to.
The notebook begins with F., who on 2 May 1913 made me feel uncertain; this same beginning can serve as conclusion too, if in place of “uncertain” I use a worse